


Waiting Room

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:52:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For tf-speedwriting advent calendar. The prompt was 'waiting room'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting Room

1.

Whirl looked more than slightly ridiculous sitting in the too-low seat that hadn’t been designed for his leg style.His long heels nearly dug into the underside, foreknees jutting awkwardly around his bound wrists. He managed, somehow, to glower, even with one optic, the yellow lens fixed with a sort of uncanny intensity on Ultra Magnus, seated across from him.

The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord looked a bit ridiculous himself, perched awkwardly on the very edge of a seat made for a mech of obviously smaller proportions. And the particular cant of his frown seemed to speak to the fact that he felt that ridiculousness acutely.

“You could play a game,” he said, holding out the small handheld game console out at Whirl.

“You could shove that up your tailpipe,” Whirl answered, too sweetly.“Don’t fraggin’ patronize me.”

“Someone has to, Whirl.”There was a reason he was bringing Whirl to Rung, rather than letting him simply rust in the brig.

A derisive arc of the optic bell. “Yeah the manacles really say ‘I care’.”

“They are to render you safe.”Or at least slow him down.

Whirl tipped back, the long spires of his stabilizers scraping on the chair’s arms. “I’m never safe. You should know that.”

“Talking like that does not help your case.” Almost regret in his voice. He didn’t like Whirl—he doubted anyone did—but that didn’t stop him from seeing Whirl as a casualty of the war. Even earlier than the war, really, the society that has spawned the four million year beast of the war itself

The claws flexed and pinched. “Yeah. Like anything could make it worse?”

2.

Rung surveyed his waiting room, hands on his narrow hips. The session with Whirl had been…typical, which meant exhausting but productive, and he was taking what he figured was a well-deserved break to get a snack and decompress. And to tidy up the waiting room.

It was important to create a comforting mood, a safe space, but also one that let him observe his patients before they came in, especially when they thought they were being unobserved.

He moved over to tidy the stack of datazines, fanning them out just enough to catch the gaze, before he squared the little game console to the table’s edge. It had a variety of simple games and simulations, and he’d learned a lot simply by seeing what his patients chose to play, as well as how they played it.Whirl, for example, had breezed through the fighting games, almost bored, but had buckled over the game console, his entire body taut and tense, at the dating sim, where he’d never gotten beyond the first few lines of conversation.

Fortress Maximus had scowled at the menu of fighting games, choosing a strategy builder, and, more than once, a little art game. That had been surprising. And Swerve had babbled his way through a maze game.

Ultra Magnus, the one time he’d come to talk to Rung in Rung’s official capacity, had simply laid the game console aside, as though it were somehow beneath him.

Interesting, all of them. Sometimes, it felt like manipulation, in a sense, but all he was doing was noticing. And he’d learned that for a lot of mechs, simply being noticed, recognized, heard, was enough.

3.

The door opened to a flash of white and red: Drift, Rung realized, watching over the closed circuit. His face was composed in business-like lines, until he saw there was no one there. He stopped, lowering the datapad he’d been holding before him like a shield, as though half-unhappy, but half-relieved.

Drift moved around the office, optics taking in the art on the walls—schematics of starships, little flashsnaps of the few planetary vacations Rung had taken, the usual variety.Rung watched, waiting for the ex-Decepticon to sit, but he kept on his feet, as though trying to be ready for flight at any instant, prowling around the waiting room as though trapping himself there.

Now was his chance, Rung thought, as Drift bent his head to examine the array of things on the low table.He coded open the door, doing his best (and honestly he didn’t have to try that hard) to look as small and unintimidating as possible. “Can I help you?”

Drift jumped, startled, the datazine he’d picked up clattering from his hands. “Me? No. I just. I was. Uh, just…looking around.”He gave a sickly grin. “That’s all.”

He probably wasn't even fooling himself, Rung thought. Rung gave a knowing nod, before tilting his head back into his exam room. “You can look around in here, if you like.”Keep it casual, on the patient’s terms. It was key to building trust.

Drift hesitated, restraightening the datazine stack, and in profile, Rung could see the mech’s mouth working, thinking through. He stood up, hands hooked over his hip scabbards, as though bracing himself. “All right,” he said, with a nod.“Just, uh, just for a few kliks.”

4.

The afternoon seemed strangely empty, the last half cycle dragging and empty, and it wasn’t until Rung called up his schedule that he realized why: this had been Red Alert’s standing appointment.A corner of stability for Red Alert, something he knew he could trust.

And now Red Alert was gone. And Rung had missed it. Maybe he could have done something. No. Not maybe. If he’d been around, he could have at least spotted the warning signs. He could have helped. He couldn’t imagine what it had done to Red Alert to have him gone—no one he trusted, no one he could turn to, spiraling deeper into the dark pit they’d both spent so much time digging him out of.

It wasn’t Rung’s fault he’d been shot, but still, he felt like a failure.

He looked at his schedule and gave a deciding nod. Yes. Today, after his sessions, he’d go to cold storage, say his farewells. No one would refuse him that. He’d apologize to Red Alert, and thank him for the sessions they’d had, and for trusting him, and, well…tell him he was missed. And he’d test, firsthand, the idea of closure.

5.

Last session, done.Thankfully nothing too straining, Rung noted, as he jotted in his own journal. It probably seemed silly, but he knew he had to, in a sense, counsel himself, if he was going to remain useful to his crew. And he was still, if he were honest, working through the matter of his own injury. He’d been stunned that so many had cared, that nearly half the ship’s complement had come together in those tale-telling sessions, in attempts to stir him awake. Mechs he’d never seen as patients had come, and some of his old patients had been nearly in tears to see him back: Atomizer had even hugged him and promised him a free redecoration of his office.

Maybe, Rung thought, I’ll take him up on that. It would be good to have a little change.

Some change was good, after all. Without change, everything stagnated, and mechs stayed stuck in their own problems.

He finished his journaling, logging it and locking it down. Self-care was vital, and he could feel it, really, when he did it, even just his end-of-day capturing of his feelings.

And now, he stood, clicking the lights off in the office suite, stepping through the doorway into the waiting room.

Which should have been empty. Except for a pair of blue optics, glowing in the darkness.

Rung tried to hide his startlement. “I, uh I’m sorry, but my patient hours are done for the day. You’ll have to come back tomorrow?”Unless, he thought, even as he said the words, this was a real crisis.

“Yeah, Eyebrows,” the blue optics rose as the mech stood up.“I can read a schedule.Maybe I’m not here for a session.”

“Then…what…?”

A laugh, Skids’s voice that familiar throaty tenor he remembered from before. Rung’s optics adjusted to the lowlight, in time to catch the blue shoulder move into a shrug. “Maybe I’m here in a, you know, non-professional capacity. You know, what us plebs call ‘friends’.”


End file.
